


Aigle d'Or

by jillyfae



Series: Blood and Lyrium [7]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2464646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hired muscle, the knife, and the spill of blood in a dark alley.  </p><p>How Hawke met her monster.</p><p>(While this is a prequel to the life of gangster!Theia in <i>Silk and Steel</i> it is roughly congruent to the way Theia grew up in the Dragon Age timeline version of her life, for those who are curious.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aigle d'Or

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loquaciousquark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loquaciousquark/gifts).



He was so beautiful. He always looked so _clean,_ sleek and almost innocent, even when the blood of those he killed for her stained his hands, even with his skin marked by riding crop or knife or the thin ragged lines of her nails, even when he smelled of smoke and death and sex.

It was what had drawn them together, of course, that cold hard glint of gold in his eyes, rage hiding somewhere behind smooth words and a practiced smile.

Her family would have hated him, in much the same way they never admitted they were afraid of her.

Perhaps it was a mercy they had all died too soon, for all she would have wished them easier deaths. Though that would never have happened without easier lives before then as well, and if that had been possible, well.

She probably never would have met her darling monster, and she could not find it in herself to wish for that.

> _She lost her trust at four._

They'd been hiding, and she'd been too young, unable, unwilling to understand, to stop the wheeze and whine of her breath, the catch of soon to be released sobs in her chest.

And so he'd smothered her, first hugging her tight, his hands wrapped around her, whispering, soothing, begging.

It hadn't been enough, his voice too thin to comfort, and he'd resorted to magic, a slow dark seeping spell that hid her from the world. And the world from her, her soul lost in some place cold and black and still, almost too heavy for breath at all.

> _She lost her faith at twelve._

She never could quite remember that terrible cold darkness, being trapped and still, but there was just enough to linger, a hint of a nightmare whenever she was sick and sniffling. She knew there was something she'd forgotten, and as her father taught her about magic, control and faith and duty, _serve that which is best,_ she started to put the pieces together.

For all his words of integrity, of being _better_ so no one could think them worse _,_ it was clear that there was no traditional spell that could do what he had done to her.

_Blood magic._

Not that he would admit to it. Or even acknowledge the question, when she started to try and ask.

So she stopped asking, and started looking for answers on her own.

> _She lost her innocence at fourteen._

He'd seen something, the neighbor's cousin, visiting for a season. Nothing too specific, he clearly didn't _know._ But he suspected, and his eyes followed Bethany's every movement, his head tilting whenever she spoke up, rare though that was, and Theia didn't think he was interested in the soft sweet lilt of a child's words.

So she made sure to block his view, over and over, until he started looking at her instead.

Not that he looked at her in the same way. She looked older than she was, she knew, had _developed early,_ as her mother attempted to put it diplomatically.

She got whistles and catcalls any time she went to pick up the shopping without her parents.

Might as well put it to use, mightn't she?

So she enticed him into chasing her, and drew it out just long enough to make sure he was well and truly caught, before she let him catch her in turn.

He took her out on a picnic.

And then he took her on that same worn blanket, once the food was gone, his breath heavy and sour against her face, the sun warm against her closed eyelids. It wasn't bad, (it wasn't good either, that came later, once she learned how to take what she wanted), but there was a moment, right before he came, when his breath caught and his body curved above her, stiff and still, and she realized, as she took one last sharp breath of her own, that he would have done _anything_ in order to get her here, to get himself inside her. Anything. For her.

Which was enough to send her over, when his performance had not been, and they ended the afternoon equally pleased, if with no particular inclination to repeat the process with each other.

He had his conquest, and she had found her own sort of strength, different than the magic that haunted her dreams, but just as powerful.

> _She lost her childhood at sixteen._

Her father was dead.

Her mother ...

Losing her mother was worse, because she was still there, standing in the kitchen every morning, making breakfast.

But she wasn't there, not really, not in any way that mattered, just going through the motions, day by day, lost somewhere deep inside herself, waiting for her husband to come back.

Waiting for someone to save her.

Too far gone to see when someone did.

She barely noticed that her eldest daughter was the one who signed the twins' report cards, who balanced the check book, who forged her mother's signature on the insurance paperwork so they'd have enough money to eat.

Who sucked a banker's cock so he wouldn't recommend the bank foreclose on the mortgage now the primary signator was dead.

Who scared away the pack of teenage boys who were eyeing Bethany a little too closely, letting moonlight glint on the edge of her knife just long enough they'd see it, slipping it back up her sleeve quickly enough they could tell she knew how to handle it.

Who made sure Carver knew all their names, all their faces, so he'd know who to watch out for. So he'd know whose blood to spill if they came back.

Who took the time to meditate with Bethany every night, to keep their magic still and secret, to keep them all safe.

Who got a job serving drinks and cleaning up after the drunks at Dane's, getting paid under the table since she was still under-age, letting the regulars pinch her breasts and slap her arse, because then they tipped more.

Until even that wasn't enough, and the money was starting to run out, and the bank was buying back all the houses in the neighborhood, piece by piece.

The teenage boys were still around, but they weren't just a pack, they were a _gang,_ and Carver was too strong to let alone, they were going to either recruit him or kill him, and Bethany was too pretty to ignore, too tempting a target, no matter how well they tried to keep her hidden behind her sister's reputation.

Leandra finally woke up to the danger around them, and dragged them away, barely ahead of the cops the bank had sent to evict them.

Back to the home she'd left behind.

Back to Kirkwall.

> _She lost her face at nineteen._

Kirkwall was a mess, squabbling gangs and politics and refugees and a Guard with more fire-power than sense, no one in charge, each faction crashing against every other one.

They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was a gift, of sorts, the kind you could never return. The kind you had to suffer with, for all your days.

_If we didn't have bad luck, Amells would have no luck at all._

They were still too much Amell to escape the family's curse, walking right into a gang war in Lowtown, already on the losing side thanks to their Uncle's contacts, already infamous because of their mother's name.

They didn't quite last a year, before someone decided they were the perfect example. Too new to have enough allies to care what happened to them, too good at fighting to be ignored, the rising stars of Meeran's Irons, and of course, they still had that name, _Amell_ , the same Amells that used to rule from Hightown.

Kirkwall had a long memory.

Kirkwall remembered who they used to be.

And what they could be again.

The perfect message. The perfect trophy.

Amell blood.

Amell blood _spilled_.

Bethany was lucky.

They hadn't known she was a mage, hadn't prepared for it, so when she fought back, ice and fire to make them scream, they killed her quickly. Two shots to the chest, one to the head after she fell, just to be sure.

Leandra just withdrew after the sound of the shots faded, somewhere deep inside, even further than she had when Malcolm died, still and quiet and small; she was already broken, no fun to play with, so they slapped her around a bit and slit her throat.

Carver though. Carver was strong. Too strong. A fighter 'til the end, loud and rough and enduring.

It took a very long time for him to die, bone by broken bone, drop by drop of spilled blood.

He lasted longer than anyone had planned.

Long enough the magebane faded, and Theia could feel the beat of her own heart, the whisper of the Fade echoing it in her thoughts, could feel the pulse of blood through her body, the slow spill of it through the cuts across her body, her face, the map of pain they'd started to make of her.

But they took too long with Carver, and when she felt him die from across the room, when she felt that echo in the Fade stutter as his heart stopped, she _knew._

She knew how to kill them all, how to take their blood from them, all at once, to call it to herself, to steal the life back that they'd taken from her family, had tried to take from her.

So she did.

It hurt to smile, the cuts on her cheeks too deep, burning and breaking, but they were screaming, and it was _beautiful_ , so she smiled anyways, smiled until she started to laugh, blood dripping off her jaw, the sting of the salt from her tears almost a comfort.

A normal sort of agony, so unlike the terrible heat of her blood, searing beneath and above her skin as she felt them all die, one by one, hot and sweet, and her eyes closed and she screamed until her voice cracked, until her heart cracked, and she gave up breathing in exchange for silence, dark and deep.

> _She lost her heart at twenty._

Theia Amell was dead.

Hawke rose in her place.

Everything Theia Amell had done had been to protect her family.

She had failed.

Hawke would not fail.

Hawke had no family left, no one to protect.

Hawke had enemies, and targets.

Hawke had _Kirkwall_.

And it would be hers.

She found an unexpected ally on the way, a charming orlesian thug she hired to be her muscle, a man who smiled and bowed and killed as easily as she did.

Monsters, the both of them, and neither needed to pretend they weren't. Not with each other.

A fellow apostate, a maleficar, and they worked together and hunted together; traded secrets at night by the light of the cheap crooked lamp in her room, spells and theories and plans.

But never their names, not really, just Hawke and her golden Eagle, and never their pasts. Just the safe secrets, how to steal a man's breath, or make a woman's heart stop, or her husband's blood boil, or her wife's eyes cry blood, just the difference between a clean strike of a blade between the ribs or a shot between the eyes for a quick kill, and the way to shatter a joint or twist a knife to _hurt_ , hurt enough to make anyone talk.

He wanted something as badly as she wanted her revenge, his need hidden behind a handsome face and graceful gestures, but for all he pretended to be in control, it drove him, and he was unable and unwilling to fight it.

It was all quite comfortingly familiar.

They flirted 'til it hurt, anticipation singing beneath her skin, blood boiling and thighs clenching, but they pretended there was nothing between them but business, nothing but killing each other's targets, hunting each other's answers.

Even they weren't that good at lying, but they tried.

Until, at last, she caught a Redwater Lieutenant, and scared him badly enough for a name, _the_ name, the one who'd ordered his men against her family.

_Leech._

She smiled, felt her scars stretch, the ache of skin that wanted to crack again, to let out blood and tears, and her Eagle looked her right in the eyes, and slid his dagger in the informant's back.

They always killed a man cleanly when they were done with him.

But then his wrist turned, and her breath caught and her eyes closed at the sound the man made, soft and broken and hopeless, too much pain too suddenly even to scream. She listened to his breath, ragged and uneven, heard the scrape of steel against bone as the blade twisted again, and he did scream that time, short and wet and broken, followed by desperate gasps that had to hurt even more with each breath through his broken lung, until he died.

Only then did she open her eyes, meet the hot glint of gold in the dark eyes in front of her, and let out one long, uneven sigh.

"Why?" Her voice was whisper soft, but her throat felt as raw as if she'd shouted.

"He hurt you," his voice was soft, and rich, he was close enough his breath was a caress against her cheek. "And nothing soothes an aching soul so much as knowing he hurt more than you do, for only a moment."

She shook her head, swallowed.

"Am I wrong?" He stepped back, and she couldn't feel the heat of him anymore, and she almost sobbed at the loss.

"No." She followed his retreat, stepping around the limp arm on the ground until they were even closer than before. "But why do you care if my soul aches?"

"Because looking at you is the only time mine doesn't."

She couldn't manage an answer to that, her voice caught in her chest with a sound that was almost a whimper, so she kissed him instead, her fingers catching in his hair to pull him to her.

She barely heard the clang of his steel as it dropped and hit the ground; she moaned into his mouth as his arms wrapped around her. "Please," she begged against his lips, "please."

"Anything," immediate, his voice against her jaw, his breath scalding her skin.

"Say my name."

"Haw – " She nipped at his lip to make him stop, and she shivered as he growled at her.

"My family," she swallowed as his eyes widened and his lips parted, at this the very first time she admitted she'd ever had a family. "My parents named me Theia."

"Theia."

She whimpered in truth that time, his voice gone low and rough between them.

"My Theia," he repeated, whispering into her ear, teeth sharp as he caught the skin of her neck between them.

"Yes."

"What would you have of me, my Theia?"

Her eyes closed, and her hips tilted, and she pressed herself against him. "Make it stop hurting."

He fucked her there on damp cobblestones as the steam of spilled blood mixed with the dockside dank, and mist settled in close and lingered on the cooling body beside them. He fucked her until she forgot everything except the heat of him, his magic and his blood and his cock, until they were bruised from the stones and each other and her body collapsed, sated and sore.

He fucked her again, until her nails broke and bled against the ground, and tears poured down her face, and she begged him never, ever, to leave her, never to stop.

He swore he wouldn't, he swore on his body and his blood and his soul and his name, which she finally learned just in time to scream it into the night as she came, _Gascard, my Gascard._

He pulled her close, her monster, her love, and her heart beat hard, and each breath was heavy, but it didn't hurt.

Nothing important hurt.

Not anymore.


End file.
